When Things Are Good
by Wednesday Fear
Summary: A story about Craig and the abuse.
1. Chapter 1

Dizzy, the black stars as his body hit the floor. Craig moaned, and from the corner of his eye he saw the next kick coming. He tensed, but tensing didn't help with the pain. One swift kick to the stomach and he was gasping around the sudden absence of air, absence of oxygen. Everything was filled with pain. Every crevice of his being.

Slowly he pulled himself up after it was over. He could still feel the blow to his stomach, could still feel the exquisite pain.

Upstairs, in his room, curled up on his bed. Tears in his eyes. Why did he always think that this wouldn't happen again? The days and months between beatings didn't make a difference. It would always happen again. When the pain was fresh and the bruises yet to form he knew this. Only with healing would he forget.

When things were relatively good both him and his dad pretended that nothing like this ever happened. He was never punched, never grabbed and thrown against walls, thrown to the floor. He wasn't ever covered in bruises. That wasn't his life.

He was isolated. He watched Angie and Joey from behind tombstones at the cemetery, running if they caught a glimpse of him. He couldn't invite people over because, because it wasn't safe. He never knew from day to day what his father's mood would be like. At other people's houses he was in awe of the environment, of the lack of tension, of the tendency his friends had to say what they wanted to say. He'd see them say and do things that he wouldn't dare and their parents would barely react.

After his mother died the beatings really started. Before her death he'd been hit, slapped, but never, never like it was now. Maybe his dad thought he'd tell her, and now there was no one to tell. No one to run to.

He knew it wasn't like this for most kids. At Emma's house for the barbeque he could tell that Emma was more self-assured, more comfortable in her own skin than he'd ever be. He felt comfortable there. He liked Spike, liked her laid back attitude, her calm demeanor. His father was anything but calm. Even when he was being nice there was this underlying tension that was nearly unbearable. Suffocating. He was always on edge, even when things were good.

Spike, smiling and laughing with Snake. Snake was tall and blond, his blue eyes looking out of his freckled face. Mr. Simpson. He felt like he could trust him and wanted to tell him…something. Some message in a bottle, an S.O.S. call for help. But he couldn't say anything. Saying something went against his coping mechanism of pretending that things were fine. Laughing it off. Nothing fazes him. He can handle it. He can compartmentalize his life. The smiling face at school, with friends, out in public, because that life was not connected to his life at home. That life was not connected to the fear and the yelling and the dripping sarcasm and the belittling and the getting strapped and getting punched and getting kicked.

The double life couldn't last for long. It would tear him apart. But right now, in the sun, laughing with Angie, it was okay. The double life was just fine.

Joey's flashy red convertible suddenly appearing in the sun. Craig's breath caught in his throat and he moved behind Emma, trying to hide. Joey couldn't see him here. He'd tell his father. He wasn't supposed to be around them, but Angie wouldn't tell. He looked down, eyes shifting from side to side. Maybe Joey wouldn't see him. Maybe he'd be okay.

"Craig?" Joey's voice and Craig cringed at his name. Of course he'd see him. Why did he think he could hide? There was no hiding.

"What are you doing here?" Joey's voice was critical and cautious and Craig didn't like it.

"I invited him," Emma said, narrowing her eyes at Joey's bald head. Angie was off somewhere else, he'd lost track of her after she'd screeched, "daddy!"


	2. Chapter 2

Home. He stood beyond the door. Every cell in his body was saying not to go in there. His dad had gone and seen Joey at the car lot. He couldn't go in there.

Blinking in the last of the sun, bag heavy over his shoulder. He had to go in there.

He jogged to the front door, his mind already creating all the good scenarios. His dad wouldn't be home. He'd be home but not mad. He'd talked to Joey but it was no big deal. Sure. Any of these things could be true.

His dad was home and sitting at the kitchen table perfectly still. Craig stared at him, unable to breathe. It was bad. Worst case scenario. He could feel it in the air, he felt the tension.

"Uh, hi, dad," No answer. Craig swallowed hard. His throat was dry. He thought about Emma and her cool mom and no dad. That seemed nice. Maybe her mom got upset at her sometimes and yelled. He bet that was as far as it went, and she probably deserved it sometimes. Not like him. He deserved it all the time. He was a terrible kid. He made his dad angry. He closed his eyes, tried to ignore what he knew was true. It was bad.

Down the cellar stairs, and things weren't getting better because he was further away from his father. It was all through the house. The door to his dark room was open and he could see some of the wreckage before he reached the door. He wished he hadn't come home. But he had no where to go.

Pushing on the door, seeing the carnage. Everything was destroyed. This was his room. His dad had helped him to set it up, paid the money for this room. Albert knew he was feeling bad about the death of his mother, the move to Toronto, everything. This dark room had been meant to cheer him up and now look at it. Craig blinked, seeing all the chemicals spilled onto the floor, seeing all the pictures torn.

Wishing. He spent a lot of time at it. Dads on T.V. seemed so nice, so funny and cool and slow to anger. He knew that was T.V. but he wished so bad that his dad was like that. His dad's moods were like landmines. You never knew what step would set them off. Craig stared at the wreckage of the dark room and wondered what had done it this time. Seeing Angie and Joey? Coming home late? The pictures he'd taken? All these things? None of them? He closed his eyes and felt the headache coming on, it pulsed between his eyes.

He heard his dad coming down the stairs and he knew there was no where to run. He was trapped down here.

"Looking for something?" Albert said, hitting him with the torn remains of the photo album he'd made of Joey and Angie and his mother. Swallowing again, his throat dry, the headache making him nauseas. He put up his hands to ward off the blows. The way his dad said that, like it was a question. But it wasn't. There was this angry sarcastic edge to the words that meant he wouldn't listen. His mind was made up. Craig looked at his narrowed eyes behind the black frame glasses. His eyes had gone glassy with fear.

"What are you doing?" he said, and got hit again with the photo album. It didn't hurt, but it would. This was just the warm up. And the look his father was giving him hurt, the tone in his voice hurt. He didn't need to get punched to be hurt.

"Looking for something?" Albert said again, his voice rising, and hit Craig again. Craig looked past his father to the door. It may have well as been a million miles away. He wouldn't be able to get past his father. Whatever was coming he was helpless to stop it. Maybe he'd take his belt from the straps and hit him with it. Craig backed up and felt the metal shelf behind him. No where to go.

"I work my ass off for you," Albert was saying, and Craig felt him grab hold of his wrists and pull him forward, "and what to I get?" Their faces were close, and Craig could smell the after shave his father wore. Years later the smell of that particular aftershave would bring him back to this day like an acid flashback, and whoever was around him at the time would say, "Craig, are you alright?" and for a second he wouldn't know because he was 14 years old and his father was about to beat him.


	3. Chapter 3

He could feel the kicks, there were four. Four swift sharp kicks to his rib cage, each one making him moan. Sharp stabbing pain, making tears come to his eyes. Then he squeezed them shut, hoping it was over. It might be. Maybe his dad would finally see him through the red haze of anger and realize, however dimly, what he's done.

But not all the time. Kicks and punches doesn't end it all the time. Sometimes he takes the belt from around his waist and crashes it down on his back and his thighs and his arms again and again and again. With that belt the pain is so great he can hardly breathe.

But this time his dad throws the torn up photo album at him and leaves, and Craig can hear each of his footsteps on the stairs, he can hear the cellar door closing, he can hear his dad crossing the kitchen and then he loses him on the thick carpets of the living room or the hallway.

He's not ready to get up yet, doesn't know if he can. He just lays there, shaking in reaction, crying, feeling the tears slide down his cheeks. What kind of father is this? What kind of a father does this? Craig is more certain, in the fresh pain of the aftermath of beatings, that he doesn't deserve this. He knows it isn't fair. He balls his hands into fists and wishes he could hit back.

Silence from upstairs. He doesn't want to go up there in fear of his dad. What if it isn't over yet? What if he yells and beats him again? But he can't stay down here all night. Can't sleep on this cold cement floor. Slowly he pulls himself up to his feet, feeling the pain from the kicks, feeling the bruises on his wrists from being grabbed so violently.

Up each stair, one at a time. He opens the cellar door and peeks out, the kitchen lit only by the recessed lights above the sink. No sign of him. Good. Craig lets out his pent up breath, wipes the tears from his eyes. He can feel so jealous of kids like Emma who have cool parents. Even Angie, his own sister, living such a different life from his. How fair is that? Joey is funny and laid back and everything he could want in a father.

He doesn't see Albert anywhere but he isn't looking all that hard, just avoiding. He goes upstairs, his room a sanctuary. Once inside he locks all his locks, not caring if it will piss off his dad or not. Of course it would. He can't do anything without pissing him off. That's just a given. Craig hangs his head, feels this crashing wave of despair. Nothing is right, nothing is getting better. In fact, feeling the pull in his side from the kicks, it's getting worse. What will happen next time? How bad will it be? And there would be a next time, about that he had no doubt.

After every beating he used to think that was the last, thought he could behave and be good and do everything right so it wouldn't happen again. He'd be a better kid and not make his dad so angry. And he tried so hard to do everything right but it always happened again. It didn't matter. Trying didn't matter. Always he'd be confronted with his dad's narrowed eyes and sarcastic questions and he knew it was coming. Closing his eyes as the sharp sting of the leather belt came down on his back, held his breath as he was thrown against walls and thrown to the floor. Couldn't stop the tears. Wished his mother was alive. Wished he was as lucky as Angie and that he had a different life.

He turned his T.V. on and hoped his dad had just left, just went somewhere else and would leave him alone. What was on the T.V. didn't matter, didn't hardly make any sense. Craig was overwhelmed by his sense that things were bad and getting worse. He swallowed hard, rubbed his side trying to make it feel better. He winced at the pain. There was nothing to do, nothing he could do about this. Would he just have to live with this, with this constant threat of violence?

He rocked a little on the edge of his bed, hugging himself for the slight comfort it provided. He thought the answer was yes, he'd have to just live with this. Nothing he did mattered. His dad's moods were indecipherable to him. He was so hot and cold, but always controlling, always belittling. Rocking, hugging himself, feeling the pain from his injuries that came in waves.


	4. Chapter 4

The only light in the room came from the T.V. and Craig could feel it flickering across his features. Bright white with commercials, flashy and blue with music videos, a steady dimness with shows.

He'd heard the door open and close, heard his father downstairs. He continued to sit on his bed and watch T.V., he made no move to get up and unlock his door. The locks would make his father angry but he didn't care. He was in that phase of not giving a shit.

After an incident, a fight, Craig would feel tired and pissed off and not care about what he did, what would make his father angry. This attitude could be very dangerous but usually after a beating his father would be remorseful, self-incriminating. Albert would feel that he deserved Craig's anger and callous attitude and he would vow to himself that he wouldn't lose control again. As days and weeks went by Albert's resolve would weaken, his job and Craig's behavior would get to him again and then it would only be a matter of time.

Craig tried to remember when things really got bad. It seems like it had always been bad, like this was forever. But it couldn't have been. He thought back to childhood, when his parents were married. He didn't remember his dad being around all that often and now he knew why. Residency, the slave-work new doctors had to put in, his dad sleeping at the hospital while his mom stayed with him. When he saw his father in those days it was brief, it was a quick hug, a fast bed-time story before he rushed off to the hospital again.

Had he noticed his mother's sadness in those days? Her dull eyes, her slight fear when his father would come home? He didn't think he really noticed it but he could see it now. He noticed the change in her behavior when she moved in with Joey. He didn't think he'd ever heard her laugh before she met Joey.

It was when his mother moved out that things got bad. He was nine. He remembered visiting her at Joey's condo, looking around at the worn furniture, the untidiness here and there that no one was freaking out about. He remembered feeling his clothes against the bruises, the purple and blue and black bruised skin from being grabbed, being hit, being punched. He felt his clothes laying against the dark finger marks on his pale skin, and he carefully wore long sleeves everyday. He couldn't let his mother see, couldn't let her know any of it. It started when she left. Craig closed his eyes, the tears thick beneath his lids, and as the tears slid down his face he could taste the salt. He missed his mother.

He'd been younger then and smaller, more easily hurt. More scared, his father towering over him, the angry eyes and the angry voice making him cringe, making him wish his mother had taken him. He was jealous of the new baby she was having, a baby that didn't live here and didn't have to worry about what it said and what it did and how it acted and none of it mattered as he watched his father pull the belt from around his waist, as he felt it come crashing down on his back.

It had been going on since then. Five years of fear and worry and five years of his self-esteem crumbling away. If he really thought about it sometimes he felt worthless, he felt like he screwed everything up. He could hear his father saying those things to him, his face twisted around the rage, "Craig, you are such a worthless little piece of shit, you always screw up,"

But then, then, there were different days. His father's tight smile and caring questions, "How are you? Do you need anything? Is school going okay? How are your friends? If you need anything, anything, just ask," And that was as true as the other side of it, and it made him dizzy. His dad helping him with science, patiently explaining the tricky concepts over and over until he understood, and his smile when he saw that he got it. The trips to the top end photography stores and his dad telling him to pick out whatever he wanted.

Craig rubbed his side, winced from the sharp pain. It didn't matter how nice his dad could be. It didn't matter. He'd stare at the T.V. and think about his mother being dead, he'd think about how he never got to see his sister. He'd think about the next time his dad would lose his temper, the next time he'd hurt him. He felt the headache, the almost constant headache he had, the stomach ache, his stomach twisting and he could feel the acid, the digestive juices that had nothing to do.


	5. Chapter 5

It was getting later. His father was home, he knew it. He heard him in the kitchen, in the living room, heard the creak of the stairs as he ascended. Craig stared at the locks on his door, making no move to unlock them. Fuck him. He wasn't getting in.

He didn't try. Craig listened hard, hearing the water running in the bathroom, hearing the footsteps in the hall, the closing of doors. It became clear his father wasn't going to bother him again tonight.

He was starting to feel that funny sleepiness that came with being beaten. Craig didn't know quite what it was, what caused it. Maybe it was the aftereffects of the adrenaline that had poured into his bloodstream as his father grabbed his wrists and yanked him off the ground. Maybe it was his body's reaction to the injuries. He felt drugged, he felt almost high. The pain had receded for now. He knew it would be back.

He slipped into sleep, the T.V. still on and blaring away, some infommercial about the sharpest knives you could ever own.

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The sun streamed through the window, he hadn't closed the curtain. The T.V. was on but hard to see in the glare of sun. Craig's alarm clock was making it's loud, repetitive screech and he reached over and turned it off.

At first he wondered why it hurt when he moved and then he remembered. It came back in little flashes, being at Emma's house, standing outside of his house, the darkroom, and then his dad's angry face inches from his own. He remembered.

He turned the T.V. off and stumbled to the door and undid the locks, feeling some measure of his safety slip away as he unlocked each one. Well, he knew he couldn't stay in here forever. The locks on his door were no solution.

His father was downstairs, he knew that. He got up early, made coffee, showered, got all dressed up in a suit that he'd just change at work for the green OR scrubs he'd seen him in a million times. If today was his surgery day. Craig didn't know anymore. Maybe it was an office day. Who cared. He just knew he had school and didn't want to go, didn't want to be around all those kids who had normal lives and were never hurt like he was. He could really hate those other kids sometimes. They didn't have to live every day pretending everything was fine.

So he showered and tried not to think about it. Went into his room and pulled on his clothes, his boxer shorts and jeans and he turned to get his shirt when he glimpsed himself in the mirror. He stared in disbelief at the cuts and bruises along each side of his rib cage. He touched it with one finger and winced. Shit. He looked awful. This was awful.

He sucked in his breath and turned away from the mirror. It was a little easier when he couldn't see it. He put on the blue button up shirt and felt even better as he buttoned it up and hid the evidence.

Creeping downstairs, staying at the foot of the stairs, holding his breath. He didn't want to go into that kitchen and see his father. What would he say to him? 'Gee, dad, I hope you don't beat the shit out of me today?' Good. That would be great.

He went into the kitchen and got his cereal, not saying a word. His father was hiding behind the newspaper anyway. Good. Craig didn't want to talk to him or even look at him. He touched the bruises beneath his shirt, feeling the pain as his fingers pressed on them. Nope, he didn't want to talk to his father at all.

He poured milk over his cereal and looked at the squares of sunlight on the kitchen table. Spooned the cereal into his mouth without hardly tasting it. He thought about going to school and faking it all day. He could. He's done it plenty of times before and by the end of the day maybe he'd believe it again, believe that things were really and truly fine.


End file.
